


Shotgun

by corviiy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blow Jobs, Casual Sex, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Fist Fights, Humanstuck, M/M, Making Out, Marijuana, Minor Cisnormativity, Misgendering, Non-Graphic Violence, Semi-Public Sex, Shotgunning, Soft Boys, Trans Dave, Trans Dave Strider, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-08-29 23:13:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8509267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corviiy/pseuds/corviiy
Summary: Karkat, a college undergrad, is hanging out with Sollux at a hookah bar when he meets a friend of his friends who is irritatingly playful. Things escalate predictably, and then unpredictably.Some vague-plotted emotional porn inspired by Sam Smith's "Stay With Me".





	1. Stay With Me?

**Author's Note:**

> edit; i had to do some editing because i made changes that didn't get saved somehow.

You’ve been to a few hookah bars in your lifetime. Your best friend manages a Turkish one down the road from your college campus. You’re used to them being calm, mellow. Turkish music over the speakers, groups of friends conversing at respectful restaurant level. You’d go there after study groups to unwind, warm lighting and soft pillows, the doors would be open to aerate the space but it let in this drowsy tepid draft.

This hookah bar is nothing like that.

It’s dark, large, anything but cozy. The ceiling and walls and floors are all black, highlighted with sparse neon lights that sometimes flash. The whole space swirls with smoke and rank smell, there’s arcade games and billiards on one side, and wooden benches tucked into corners where teenagers can make out in “peace”. The music is all alt-rock bullshit that is turned up too loud and you’re pretty sure most of the patrons around are closer to the age of 16 than 18. Half of them are dressed in emo-punk garb.

The whole scene is kind of nauseating.

But this is apparently where Sollux likes to unwind. He’s been sitting adjacent from you for a half hour with his face just as glued to his computer as it always is, only this time his mouth has a hose in it. You’re about to call it a night, tell him you’re out of here when some scrawny blonde comes over and splays himself halfway across the corner of the bench, head in Sollux’s lap and feet in yours. You sneer, only really recognizing him because you’ve seen him with your friends from a distance.

“Evening gentlemen.” He sings, snatching the hose out of your hands and giving it a deep toke.

“Hey Dave.” Sollux mutters. He doesn’t seem to mind the thick, cool smoke that Dave blows upwards against his chin. “This is Karkat. He’s new to the scene.” Wow, a nod this time. You’re glowing.

“I’m not fucking new you ax wound, I’ve just never been here.” You spit, plucking the hose out of Dave’s hand.

“Well old, new, whatever. S’nice to meet you, Karkat.” He says, sitting up and extending his hand. You take it and notice his grip is ginger as he gives your hand a little shake. Soft hands. You make other observations about him too, like how he’s wearing shades in a place that’s practically pitch black already, and his voice, while mature, has an unidentifiable bright cadence.

“Likewise.” You remark, releasing his hand and feeling sort of wary. “How do you know Sollux?”

“Chess club, obviously.” He takes your hose and takes a hit, then exhales. “I’ve been watchin' you y’know.” He says, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, great. Just what I need, some punky kid “watching” me. Alert the presses.” You mutter, grasping at your hose. As you grab it, he smacks a hand over yours.

“Karkat, was it? You’ve been holding this thing for like a half hour and haven’t taken one hit. What’s up, guy?” He says, pulling your hand down a little so he can see you better. “Do you need help?” He asks, a cocky little smirk on his face.

You give a little grunt when you yank it away from him. Demonstrationally, you hit it hard and fast, and your eyes flick over to where the coals light up with how hard you’re doing it. The smoke is thick and moist in your lungs and sticks to your throat and you immediately sputter out a cough, much to Dave’s amusement. He laughs like he's making a show of laughing. Great.

“Oh man. Poor thing. Nobody taught you how to take a hit, that’s alright. Maybe go a little easier, huh?” You don’t have any time or gumption to protest him as he takes the hose away from you and takes another hit. He glances back at Sollux. “You really shoulda made sure the dude was game, y’know.” He remarks. Sollux only shrugs.

“Thought he was. He sure as hell talked a big one.” The nerd gives you a grin of his own, but his attention is diverted when someone across the bar shouts his name. He’s assaulted a second later with a bunch of techno-babble from his neurotic older brother. The two of them say a bunch of stuff you vaguely understand. You’d try to join in but Sollux didn’t really take your programming seriously like he did his own and you aren’t in the mood to be dismissed. After a minute, Mituna hauls his younger brother off and you’re left sitting awkwardly in a hookah booth with this asshole that you’ve just embarrassed yourself in front of.

“So what’s your major, huh?” Dave asks, leaning back and taking a hit. This time, he gives the hose up to you willingly, even though now you’re pretty turned off of it.

“English Lit.” You murmur. “Yours?” He balks out a short bit of laughter.

“College ain’t my jam.You’re lookin' at a Kellogg-brand high school dropout my friend.” He explains.

“Yeah? how long ago was that, two months?” IT’s an attempted jab at his soft features but he actually nods, takes the hose and takes another hit.

“Three more like, but who’s counting.” Him, obviously. “So did you actually come here to get that shisha buzz or are you just gonna sit there with your dick in your hands.”

“Oh, fuck off. I’m easing into it alright.” You hiss. “This isn’t really. I mean, this place isn’t a place I’d wanna lose my footing in.” You explain. He nods slowly, as if he understands.

“So you do it at home or at one of those middle eastern places?” He relaxes next to you, extending his leg and shutting Sollux’s laptop with the side of his ankle.

“The latter.” You glance down at the mouthpiece on the hookah, fiddle with it a little bit.

“You ever go to Makara’s?” He cocks his head in your direction ask he asks. At least he isn’t still grabbing at the hose and trying to pull it out of your hand constantly.

“...Yeah. How’d you know?” You raise the mouth piece to your mouth, pause, and think better of it. You don’t know if your pride can survive another hit tonight.

“Eh, Gamzee and I share dealers. Makaras is the best kinda place for intellectual types I notice.” He gives a little shrug and leans forward, then stands. You eye him as he takes the tongs and plucks one of the coals from the top, aims it away from the two of you and blows.

“So why come here?” You’re kind of bewildered. Nobody did that shit at the places you’ve been, they normally just tap the ash off the coals. It hadn’t even occurred to you that you _could_ just blow it off, and you watch as brilliant, lit pieces fly off like sparks off a firework. It gives you a chance to really give him a second glance. He’s cute enough, a little soft featured, small or maybe wiry. You can’t tell with the clothes he’s wearing. His hair is a curly-wavy plume of blonde and his skin is tan and in the low, warm light of the coals you can tell it’s got a cool, olive tone to it.

“I dunno, s’a good place to get frisky I guess.” He says, setting the coal back down on the tin and repeating the process with the second piece. His answer is, well, unsurprising. But it miffs you a little. You still don’t know how old he is, if it’s even legal for him to be smoking, let alone the appropriateness of getting frisky at a hookah bar.

“Do you ever get frisky here?” You ask, half sarcastic as he plops back down next to you. There’s a bare hint of a smirk on his face, but he doesn’t look at you.

“Have you ever shotgun?” He asks, ignoring your question, taking the hose from you and taking a nonchalant hit.

“Huh?” The question comes so out of left field, you’d spit-take if you had a drink. The smoke comes out through his smug little grin on his exhale.

“I mean like, you seem a lil nervous, couldn’t take your first hit. Maybe you wanna try shotgunning. It’s easier.” He offers.

“I...I don’t. That’s not really, like.” You can’t find a way to articulate yourself, so you avoid his gaze and tug at the hem of your t-shirt. “I didn’t come here for that.” You mutter.

He chuckles cutely, a little _aww_ tailing the end. You try to muster up a glare behind your flushed cheeks but he only pouts back. How can you be mad at that?

“C’mon Karkat. It’s not a marriage proposal, it’s just an easier way to hit it.” He explains. You shrug a little. It’s not that you don’t want to kiss him. You think it’s the opposite. That you’re going to go to take a hit and want to keep kissing him. And that he’s gonna keep kissing you, and you’re going to be reduced to making out with a teenager in a dank alternative hookah bar. Nothing about that sounds romantic or nice or good, god forbid you actually like him and he’s like fifteen years old. He doesn't look or act like he is, but there are some thing you're just weary to, like his voice and size and all around softness. He's a mind reader, apparently. “If it’s any ease on the ol’ consciousness, I’m of age.”

You glance up at him, eyebrow raised skeptically.

“Nah, I get it. You’re not the first guy to think I’m not and you won’t be the last.”

“You said you just dropped outta high school.” You point out.

“Yeah, three months ago. Turned eighteen five months ago though. You can’t be much older than what, twenty one?” You shift on the bench, a little more comfortable.

“Almost twenty, actually.”

“So like almost two years. S’no big deal, we're both adults.” He’s right. You’re feeling a lot more comfortable with it.

“Sure. Yeah, alright. That’s fine.” You agree, angling yourself more towards him. Somehow, when you look at him, the way his face is, you can already tell that for him it’s not going to be “just shotgunning”. You know the look he’s giving you, you know the look of a potential one-night-stand. With it in mind that he’s not actually as young as you thought, you’re less scared of the prospect.

You watch the way his lips wrap around the disposable plastic tip, the way that they press together to hold the smoke in and the trail of smoke that leaves as he pulls away from it and turns to face you. You don’t give yourself any time to think about how weird this is, kissing some dude you met officially half an hour ago. You just lean in, and press your lips to his.

They part enough for you to be able to take in the smoke he’s held in his mouth, but it’s not much of an inhale. You’re too focused on the feel of his lips against yours. Once you pull back, all you exhale is a vague puff of smoke that barely compares to the way a normal hit leaves his mouth like a smokestack at an industrial plant.

“Not bad, a little weak though.” He murmurs. “C’mere, come closer this way.” He says, scooting back into the very corner of the booth. You do as he says without really thinking about it, follow him like a dog sniffing out a treat. You’re about to press your lips to his again but he puts the mouth tip against his and inhales. This time, you take the billowing smoke into your lungs with a new kind of fervor, but neither of you pull back once it’s inside of you. His lips move languid against your own, smoke swirls around you as you blow it out your nose because your mouth is too occupied.

His breath gets shallow and he ditches his hold on the hose to wrap his arms around your neck. Your hand finds his midsection, the bottom of his ribs, you squeeze to feel him squirm, to feel the telltale arch of someone’s interest in the way he pushes closer. He groans softly, you feel his voice against your lips, vibrating as you move them against his.

You forget where you are, that you’re in public, making out with someone who’s one conversation more than a stranger. That he’s younger than you, and buzzed on smoke, that you’re supposed to be here with your friend. For some reason you can’t care. His lips are addicting. They’re full and sweet and when your tongue begs for more at the soft, wet inside of them, he makes this delicious noise and parts them for you.

His tongue meets yours at the same moment that his fingers tighten in your hair, and yeah, you’re so fucking past caring. He was really onto something when he mentioned he comes here for hookups. You bet he has it easy, or maybe it’s this place. The fumes, all the unfiltered smoke that clouds the area that’s making the two of you pant and bite and move together like this.

Ultimately, he ends up pulling away. You could just curse him for it, but he’s scrambling out from under you, grabbing your hand and pulling you away from the booth.

“Wh--” You begin, half lust-laced. Your lips buzz, holy shit. You want to keep kissing him.

“Sh.” He hushes, pulling you along, stealing you away from the neon lights in the dark, dark bar. You’re about to question him again when he veers down a corridor and pulls open a door. You’re suddenly sent into pitch darkness, all you can really deduce is that you’re in a tight space.

He doesn’t waste any time, hands on your hips, lips on your jaw. You dip down and catch them, smoothly easing the two of you back into familiar macking territory, only now it’s not so hard to feel confident grabbing at him.

And you do. Your hands can’t actually figure out where to go at first because there’s so much of him you want to touch. Once your lips find a rhythm again though, you’ve gathered enough sense to slip your hands down and grasp at his ass. It’s a win-win, because his ass is a good handful, and grabbing it makes him sigh and bite at your lips gently, like he wants more.

His lips fall off yours as he starts to get at parts of you that are more eye level for him. Specifically, your neck. He mouths warm, open kisses that drag out tiny noises from you. The way he uses his teeth isn’t sharp and pinching like some people do it, it’s wide and threatening, he uses them to brace against you so he can suck on your neck. You could lose your mind. You could melt right onto the floor, and you almost do, sliding down the wall a couple of inches. He laughs and it makes your blood boil and your stomach coil. You hadn’t noticed that your grip on his rump was tight enough to be pushing his hips flush against yours. Well, as flush as they could get with clothes on.

He slots a leg between yours and rolls his hips and, yup, you’re definitely fostering a full-chub. It’s just not at the most pleasing angle in your pants at the moment, but he seems intent on remedying that, his hands slip between the two of you and fiddle with the buttons on your jeans until you hear the unquestionable sound of zipping, feel a release of tension.

It’s the first time you’ve really thought about it, but you wish you could see better. His hand wraps around the shaft of your dick and you really wish you could watch him slip down, away from your grip and sink to his knees.

While he doesn’t appear to be the time-wasting type given the circumstance, you could already tell he liked to tease.

He rucks your pants down a little more and pulls you out of your boxer-briefs, but that’s all he does in the way of getting to the point. His chilled fingers hold your dick still and slightly to the side while he seasons your hips well in kisses just like he left on your neck. Slow, drawn, open mouthed. They’re driving you nuts. He even bites your hip and it makes you flinch and groan, fingers lacing into his hair.

He kisses wetly at the base of your dick, you can feel his tongue flick out against the underside. Your heart feels like it’s trying to strike up a dance beat in your chest, your whole core feels hot with the restraint it’s taking you to not take his pretty face in your hands and push your prick right into his throat. Instead, you keep one hand gentle in his hair, the other pressed against the wall for grounding while his lips and tongue finally reach the head.

His lips, you’ve noticed, are something special. They’re full, when he covers his teeth with them you can feel that there’s still plenty of lip left. It’s a nice visual to think about, because in porn when some no-lipped twink makes his mouth into less of a mouth and more of a fleshy hole, it tends to turn you off. With him you can picture his swollen lips still plump around your cock as he sinks down around it and-- “Ah, fuck,” --swirls his tongue.

Your grip gets tighter in his hair, and it causes a sort of chain reaction. Him, taking you so far in that you can feel the smooth soft palate at the back of his throat, him moaning on your cock and the sensation being enough to make you moan. He gets a few good bobs of his head in before you start to feel yourself trying to fuck into his mouth, as well as bring you dangerously close to a place you’re just not ready to be yet. That’s embarrassing.

You pull him off, gently urging him away before sliding down to his level. He melts back against the other side of the small space as you kiss him, his lips, warmer and wetter than they were before. It makes your dick ache a little to think that it was just between them, that you can still taste yourself on his skin. Between his legs your dick hangs heavy, and you wrap your arms around his hips and pull him closer so it can rest against his groin.

You notice that he is. Not. Sporting a woodie like you are. You’re about to ask him what the problem is but the hall light just outside the door flicks on, and yellow light pools in under the door and through the slats in the middle. The two of you go dead silent, and you take a moment to glance around. You’re in a broom closet, apparently. And his face--oh.

The look on his face is not what you’d expect it to be. His mouth is slack to let his heavy breathing have an outlet, his eyebrows are knotted up over his shades in what looks like concern. You reach up, slow and gentle, and pull his shades away from his eyes. His eyes, you first see them as red but you’re sure the light is playing tricks on you. They’ve gotta be a ruddy brown, or something. And they’ve got something in them you definitely weren’t expecting to see.

Panic, but mild.

The two of you sit in silence until the light flicks off, and the sound of footsteps fades away. You could ignore it, you could just keep going and forget about the look. You could tell yourself that maybe that was just his aroused face, or something. Or maybe that he was scared about possibly getting caught. That would make sense. Unfortunately for your dick, you are not a total piece of shit.

You sit up, adjust yourself a little and pull him into your lap as you lean back against the wall.

“What’s up?” You murmur, fingers finding his hair, pushing it back out of his eyes. He folds, rests his forehead against your shoulder and curls up into you in a position that’s almost childlike. It’s kind of a boner kill, but it also confirms your suspicion that stopping was the right thing to do.

He doesn’t do anything for a long time. He sits there, on you, totally quiet in all respects, the only indication you’ve got that he hasn’t outright fallen asleep on you is that his arms are around your midsection, fingers finding a purchase to fidget in your shirt.

“This is almost over, right?” He asks it softly, but otherwise his voice is unreadable. It cuts to the quick, though. You don’t know why you care, why it miffs you, but it does actually bother you, coming to terms that you’re dealing in a one night stand right now.

“Yeah.” You drop your head into the crook of his neck and plant a chaste kiss there.

“Can I tell you something?” He asks. You nod a little. You weren’t really expecting to have a heart-to-heart in a broom closet after a good but short lived blowjob tonight. “I’ve never gotten this far. I mean, here, doing this.” He admits. “Not like I’m a virgin or anything. I mean, when I said I come here to get frisky that’s about all I do. Yknow, stuff I could still feasibly do out there.”

“Why did you bring me back here, then?” You ask him. He shrugs against you.

“I like you.”

There goe your heart, skipping around like it has something to say. You suppose you can’t really blame him or get mad that he wanted to do this with you, specifically. It's a compliment, really, one that makes a warm blush bloom under your eyes.

He pulls back, and leans in to kiss you. It feels nice and just good in a way that one night stands don’t. Not familiar per se, but comfortable. Like your short feels jam made you two a little closer. Or maybe you’re just a sap, maybe you’re emotional, but you feel like he’s handed you something that other people don’t get to look at.

God, you are a sap. You just met him. Get your fucking shit together, Karkat.

His kiss feels less rushed--wait, no, yours does. You realize that his kissing has been slow from the start. Even if he did start it, pulled you in here, got on his knees first. He was taking his time in this respect. You humor this, now that the air has changed. You part your lips and let him in and think about the way his hands move up your chest and around you neck to curl in your hair. You want to treat him a little gentler, because you thought he’d had more experience with this whole sexually charged encounter in the broom closet thing.

He doesn’t though. He’s just as nervous as you are. Probably more, actually.

You’re sort of lost in slow, easy kissing and in your own head and thoughts. Your arms are wrapped around him and the whole thing is, at least in the cinematic way you picture it, intimate. He grinds down in your lap, but the position isn’t doing it for you, so you sit up and then push him down into the floor. You take his hands and lace your fingers into his, push them down too. He doesn’t mind you pinning him there, you can tell by the way he keeps his hips close.

You have to pry them away from you, distract him with a soft bite to his neck so that you can work on pulling his pants down. He’s compliant as he can be, lifting them where he needs to, and pulling his leg back when you pull one pant leg (and shoe by proxy) off. You don’t have time or space for the other. It’s bunched up around his calf and that’s as out of the way as it needs to be for now.

He still isn’t hard, you don’t know if you should bring it up or not, maybe he’s the kinda of guy that literally needs something jabbing into his prostate to get off. His legs are smooth and bare from what you can feel. It makes you laugh as your hand traces one of them.

“What?” He spits irritably.

“Nothin. You’re just, kind of a twink.” You remark.

“Okay well you’re not exactly the epitome of sweaty, panting leather daddy, sorry if that’s more your speed dude--” You cut him off with a short kiss on surprised, open lips.

“Shut the fuck up. I wouldn’t be in here with you right now if I wasn’t into it.”

“Oh my, Mister...uh...mister…”

“Vantas.”

“Oh my Mister Vantas, what a fuckin charmer you are. Karkat ‘I’m into twinks’ Vantas. What’s next, slow, gentle, one-two-three-scissor-stretch preparation?” He teases. You’re close enough that him talking tickles your lips, so you nip at his.

“Well yeah, actually.” You say. He exhales, and you can feel the heat radiate from his cheeks. “If you want I mean. That would be the next step.”

“S’not really necessary.” He says. “Got any condoms?” You’re a little startled by the question, assuming that he’d just said no to your proposal.

“Uh, yeah but they’re the kind that kind of tingle.” You admit sheepishly. He snorts, and pushes himself up on his elbow, bending his leg and grasping for his wallet. He pulls out a condom and opens it with his teeth. “Aren’t you not supposed to do that?” You ask. He shrugs a little.

“Doesn’t really matter. Assuming you’re clean, it’s more like a precaution.” He says. For what, you’re not sure. At this point you’re just assuming he prepped before he came here. Weird, but you won’t knock it. It makes things easier.

He takes your dick in his hand and rolls the condom down it, gives it a few pumps, because that’s what friends do you guess. Then he’s trying to get his boxers off.

“Shouldn’t you, uh, turn over? There’s kind of a space issue here…” You trail off because he laughs at you, again, like you said something hilarious.

“You seriously haven’t gotten the memo yet dude I’ve practically stapled it to your head.” You are totally dumbfounded. Memo? What memo?

You can’t really see well but you’re expecting to at least be able to make out some outline of a dick, flaccid or otherwise even in the pitch of the closet. You don’t. He takes your hand and guides it to slip between his legs, and you--oh. Oh.

“Oh, fuck.” You mutter. You can feel your cheeks heating up. In retrospect, yeah, he has pretty much stapled that memo, dated and notarized to your head. You get why people think he’s younger than he is.

“Is it a problem?” He asks, a little flatly. Probably because your fingers have stilled against what you happen to know is his swollen clit.

“No! No. It’s not.” It really isn’t. “I’m not picky about shit like that.” You really aren’t. He’s satisfied with your answer enough to wrap his arms around your neck and kiss you, hips canting up so that your cock slides against the slick heat of his cunt. Yeah, you’re definitely okay with this, holy hell.

He grinds against you, biting at your lips because your attentions are a little scattered, it's just a reminder to you to kiss him back. And you do, with all the care he takes in kissing you. It grips your heart in some weird way and twists it. He feels bizarrely correct against you, you can't explain why but it makes you wish the two of you were in a bed, where you could curl around him after and maybe get coffee with him in the morning.

You push the thoughts aside, mainly because his grinding is starting to work you up a little too much. You cant hear the way his breath hitches and his voice drags a little bit in an effort not to moan, but you're not gonna put up with that. No way, you're gonna get some serious bang for your buck--no pun intended.

Giving him a kiss before you pull back and prop yourself up on your arm, you have you pull his hips down away from you again.

“Is this okay?” you whisper, reaching down to line yourself up against his cunt.

“Yeah,” he huffs back breathlessly, trying to move his hips to help in that task.

When you're all lined up, you practically glide into him. Fuck, he's wet as hell and it couldn't feel more perfect. Underneath you, he's broken out into shivers. It might be the air, or the situation, you can’t really tell, but he wraps his arms around you and pulls himself close, groans into you ear as you push further into him.

You're happy to entertain that. You bring your arms around him too, pull his body flush against yours and hold him there as he buries his face into your neck.

“Fuck,” Its muffled and it tickles your neck. He turns his head to talk easier. “Karkat, fuck, move. Move.” You swear you hear a drawl in the way he speaks, but hearing you name on his lips spurs you into complacent obedience. You pull him upright and push him up against the wall, pull out a little and snap your hips upward into him again.

He arches into you so quickly that you almost lose the position, you have to grip his ribs and push him back, hold him still. You don't make yourself a stranger, you kiss him while you do it and roll your hips into him, making your bodies shift and flow in sync.

His kissing isn’t so slow now. The only kisses he can keep up with are the short pecks you throw in, but that’s okay. The way he moans against your lips is easily as satisfying. The fact that you’re making him moan even more so.

You curl your arms up under his and hook them over his shoulders. The leverage it gives you is great, because you can pull him up a little and better control the pace and such. It successfully renders him a puddle in your arms, especially when you pull him down into a particularly hard thrust and he yelps, head tilted back and giving you room to bury your face in his neck and repay him in kind for the hickies you’re sure he gave you earlier.

Given that you’re turned on and hormonal, you don’t last long. You try to be a gentleman and wait until he’s whining in a way that signifies some kind of climax, because you know people with his kind of equipment are a little tougher to crack. That really doesn’t seem to be an issue, though, especially when your thrusts get more staggered. You don’t think he’s faking it, not with the way he jerks his hips into yours before they start to slow as if his throbbing junk is trying to pull every last second of orgasm from you and draw it out until it’s stretched taut.

Then it’s too much. Too much stimulation localized to your dick, at least, you feel like your soul is getting sucked out of your body for a second and have to pry his hips away from you. It’s a feat because he’s damn clingy, flush as possible to you, grip so tight around you that it leaves your face buried in the juncture of his shoulder. Once you’re out of him, though, you pull him close again and wrap your arms around him so tight you’re almost circling them back around yourself as you lean against the other side of the closet.

You kiss at his collarbone, because it’s the only part of him that isn’t melting against you right now. It’s stable, and grounding. You feel like you could probably sit here just forever, holding him tight. You think he feels the same way because you definitely lay there for upwards of ten minutes with no words said, just post-orgasmic cuddling. It’s hot and kind of sticky from sweat, but soon a vague chill settles on the edges of your skin.

“You cold?” You ask. He just nods against you after a small beat of silence, so you push him back gently. He’s so pliant to it, moving and shifting with you as you pull his underwear and pants back on. Sort of difficult, actually, with the way moisture clings to his plush skin. It’s okay, though, you’re patient, and being gentle now is the least you can do. You put yourself back in order while you’re at it.

Then survey his face, because the tone between you is so different now than when you started. He’s gone catatonic, a mutable but otherwise quiet and almost empty person in front of you. It freaks you out, especially when you reach out and touch his face to find it wet.  
  
“Hey, what. Are you okay?” You frown, a prickling thickness in your throat because you’re terrified you did something wrong. “Did I hurt you?”

His breath breaks in a telltale shudder, and all you can do is think oh fuck, you totally fucked up this guy. You’re the actual worst, Karkat. Despite the replay of events telling you pretty obviously that this was all a consensual affair between enthusiastic adults, your brain is trying to villainize you. He curls again, like he did during that break earlier. Childishly sets his forehead on your shoulder and tries very hard not to keep crying.

“Dave?” You could probably cry too. The feeling of being a terrible human being sits like a pufferfish in your chest and doesn’t stop being A Thing. Not until he speaks.

“I don’t want to go home.” His voice is hoarse, but even. He shakes his head against his shoulder. You exhale a coveted breath of relief and move to rub his back. “I don’t want this to be over.”

“Why?” You prompt, pulling him back a little as if you could see him.

“I...I can’t--” He swallows, tucked in on himself too. “I can’t go back. If I have to spend one more night in that place I-I don’t know what I’d do with myself.” There’s obviously strain in his voice as he tries to keep it as even as it had been before. You take him close, press him to your chest and place a hand on the back of his head to sooth.

So now you’re at a precipice.

Rationally, getting this emotional during a one night stand is flagrantly stupid and in most situations, to a normal person, the behaviors Dave is expressing would be unattractive. People don’t just cry in the middle of a one night stand. If they do, they’re obviously damaged. You think if this were a normal, sleazy one night stand you would be pretty turned off.

But you’re not.

You like him, actually. It might be your just-got-laid brain, but you like him a lot. He’s playful and you’ll admit to agitation at his teasing, but it’s the fun kind. He could totally be a con artist with all the blubbering he’s done but he really seems genuine. You don’t want to prod him about what kind of shit he goes through at home but if he’s that desperate to get away that he’d spend all night in a shitty place like this making questionable choices with strangers, then he chose the right stranger to make a questionable choice with tonight.

Fuck it, why the hell not. You inhale and press your lips against his forehead, closing your eyes and taking that risk.

“Stay with me?”


	2. He Stayed

You're in your kitchenette, eyebrows drawn and lips pursed as you think about what just happened. Your hands shake as they ladle the contents of medium-sized pot into two bowls, and your jaw aches. Tomorrow, a lot more of you is going to ache but you're still too adrenaline-high to feel it.

Across the living room and outside the sliding glass door, Dave sits on your apartment balcony with his legs dangling between the bars. A smokestack rises from him, his hand resting on the wood next to him with the joint he has wedged between his fingers. You look at the bruises on his arm, when he turns his head to take another hit you can see the edge of one on his cheek. He's been out there for about ten minutes, enough time for you to make some ramen on the stove that's dressed up a little better than usual.

You're feeling a lotta ways about this. You're not sure you've ever been in a situation where relief and anger married so well in your chest cavity. 

The night you hooked up with Dave, you took him home with you. Not to continue rolling around in the metaphorical hay--not that you would complain--but because after he admitted he didn't want to go home, there was no way you were gonna make him. You didn't have the worst parents, but your dad snapped at you a time or two and was loud enough to have you clearing a ten mile radius around him until he apologized. You kept him here at your place, let him live in your clothes. He wasn't a freeloader or anything, he did dishes and cleaned up after himself and apparently has a comic website or two that rakes in ad money and paypal donations, so he covered groceries as thanks.

But eventually you had to sit him down and talk to him about the fact that the only clothes he had were yours. About how he had nothing to do, how he can stay as long as he wants to but he can't just do _nothing_ and wait for you to get home from classes like a puppy or some shit. That was over a month ago, and in response to the talk he got a job. A gas station nearby, which gave him enough to buy some clothes. You also had him sign up for food stamps because you'd rather him be able to use his ad revenue to save up. 

Still, he was avoiding what he needed to do. You knew it.

The other night, you sat down again and told him he needed to go home. Not permanently, but he needed to go get his things. You told him you were tired of him talking about his interests in the past-tense, and that he was entitled to his things. You told him you'd help him, come with him. He knew what you were implying, and told you straight up. 

"You can't protect me." 

Maybe you can't. The fact that he needs to be protected though, that's all the more reason for you to try.

You did your best. His brother is a big guy, bigger than you are in stark contrast to Dave himself. When Dave came to his door, he wasn't relieved, he was hardly even angry. He acted like he just didn't care. He acted like he didn't care but he obviously did, because he rambled on about how Dave was a spineless coward for leaving, said he was ungrateful for all the shit he's done for him. He pointed at you and said you wouldn't put up with him forever. You just bit your tongue, not wanting to escalate. Dave was strong, he endured it, packing his stuff in stoic silence and not acknowledging increasingly antagonistic shots fired at him.

The worst, though, was when he started to deadname him. It was painful because of Dave's surprise, like he never expected him to do that. Painful because you heard something you weren't supposed to hear and were never going to ask for. Painful because he elaborated, telling Dave he didn't deserve to be called a man if he was just going to be chickenshit and run away from his problems. 

Oh Lord Who Art In Heaven was not with you in that moment. He was helping some other schmuck get over his addiction when you lunged at Dave's older brother. 

You're lucky Dave isn't entirely a pacifist and probably knew you were giving that guy what was coming to him. He took the opportunity to hustle his bags and equipment out the door and down to the car while you and Bro fought. You didn't notice though because you were too busy both pitching and receiving punches. You'd had the upper hand for a good couple minutes but as soon as he wrestled you onto your back you were totally done for. The dude is thick packed with muscle, fifty pounds heavier, and you deigned from his conversation with Dave that he made brawling a staple in this house. 

He'd have probably broken you if Dave hadn't hurried back in when he did. Hell, he split your lip already.

Dave slid onto the scene, and you'd like to think him heroic. Clothes-lining Bro with as much velocity as his light frame allowed him (a lot) pried the dude right off you. You scrambled up immediately, and he almost took your place underneath Bro. He definitely took the next punch, but you had your hand wrapped tightly around his arm, hauling him up had and dragging him out. You'd slammed the door as if that'd stall Bro by much, then dragged Dave down the stairs so fast you practically tumbled down. 

He let you hang onto him until you were out the door before he yelled that you were hurting him. 

Fuck. 

You must have pulled a pretty big face because he hushed you, told you there was no time to feel guilty, and hurried you towards the car.

Silence. The ride home was silent. Unpacking his things from the car was silent. Three bags and various music cases were stacked up around your apartment. He still hasn't said anything to you beyond that he was gonna go smoke.

It was crazy. This whole thing was crazy. You don't care though. You just want to keep him safe.

You pick up the bowls of food and a couple of water bottles, walking out onto the balcony and sitting on the side of him that wasn't bruised up in the crossfire. 

"Thanks." He mumbles, almost surprised sounding as he takes one of the bowls and a water bottle.

"No problem." He nod. He gets a few good slurps in to fill the silence after mixing the egg into his noodles. "So uh," You clear your throat. "He's not gonna come after you or anything is he?" 

"Nah," He remarks over a mouthful of noodle. "That dude doesn't give a fuck about me he just mad he can't control me no more."

Another long silence.

"I'm sorry for hurting you." You mumble, poking at your unpopped yolk.

"It's fine."

"It's not, I left a mark. I don't want you to feel unsafe here too."

He hands the joint in his hand over to you.

"Thanks." He says while you take a hit. "For all a this. I mean, no it's not cool that you bruised me, but I know you weren't trying to and that you were actually tryina help. And I mean? That shit was my every day. I knew how to deal with a clear head. You were all pumped with adrenaline you prolly didn't realize how hard you were holding onto me." He holds his bowl away from him and lulls his head to look at you. "And you stood up for me. I wasn't expectin' him to act like that he hasn't called me a girl since I was ten years old. If you hadn't plowed him over I might've up an cried and, y'know, he'd keep goin' on about it. Might even try to kick me around. Like I need that for my ego right now."

"Dave I don't think you understand, I wasn't really doing that to stand up for you, I am genuinely enraged by bigoted abusive assholes."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You pass the joint back and push your fork into your noodles, finally taking a bite. 

"Still. Thanks." Then there's more quiet. It's more comfortable this time though. When the both of you are done with your food and have moved on to the water-drinking portion, he leans back, propping himself up on his arms. 

"You know," You start, looking over at him. "You can still cry. If you want to." 

He just stares at you for a long moment, unmoving. You can't read it, not with his shades in the way. You think, though, maybe you see a quick tear fall down his face and into his lap as he curls forward to remove his legs from the bars, scoot closer, and reinsert them through a different set of bars. He rests his head against your shoulder, and you let him sniffle against you for an indeterminate amount of time.

"Y'know, I could've moved closer if you asked." You murmur, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

"It's too late, my ass is already chilly."


End file.
